I Will Never Be a COMPETING Slam Poet

On April 28, I wrote a blog titled “I Will Never Be a Slam Poet.”

Here was some of the “rationale” behind that argument.

“I ‘bleed’ too much, feel too much, think too much.”

Last night I was watching Brave New Voices, and it solidified for me what I should have never forgotten. It’s not that I bleed too much, I was just doing it the wrong way. That’s what expression consists of: thoughts, feelings, and blood.

Then, I said, “I used to want to be a slam poet more than anything in the world, but I can't. I was meant to be different. Meant to write, not to perform. Meant to speak, not to recite. Meant to teach, not to compete.”

I said, “I am not saying that slam is shallow (although I know some think it is). Yes, it is a game...but I believe that games and competitions show people's character.“

In response to what I wrote, my friend Lauren Zuniga said, “Slam is just something we do. A game we play so that the Ego can have a good time and give the Spirit permission to write.”

Brave New Voices changed my opinion of all that. Team Philadelphia consisted of Hasan Malik Babb, Josh Bennett, Aysha El Shamayleh, Noel Scales, Chloe Wayne, and Alysia Harris. On the season finale during the final round of the grand slam, the whole team went onstage holding hands and crying. They told the audience that they had not been behaving like a team over the course of the competition. They said the scores and the desire to win had distracted them. Because of this, they made the decision to forfeit the final round as a team. All six of them together chose to say it’s not about the competition but about the poetry, about the difference that words can make. And to top it off, they still performed. They blessed us with their words and refused to be scored. In my opinion, if they hadn’t forfeited, they would have won. I think perhaps they knew that and felt they didn’t deserve to win if the win would mean more than the words. Damn.

Slam is just a game. Prior to watching this episode of this show, I wasn’t sure if there was a right way to play it. But those six kids put the entity of slam poetry to shame. They showed me and the world that the warrior generation really is fighting for something more than titles and recognition.

When the grand slam was over and the rest of the qualifying teams had been scored, they were all brought on stage to announce the winners from low to high. When the announcements were made, the teams were asked to stand in ranked order by their teammates. They all refused. They said they wouldn’t split up that way because they were all one team and it was all one prize. They started shouting, “One Team! One Team! One Team!” And the show’s host threw up his hands, went offstage, sat down and let them do their thing. Their voices were heard. The show ended with all the teams on stage intermingled, hugging each other, congratulating each other, chanting, “BNV ain’t nothin’ to fuck with!” That’s the truth if I’ve ever heard it.

Here are some of the things I texted to Kosher when I was watching this on TV.

“Now, I want to master slam, not to ever win any kind of title but so that I can teach kids how to save their own lives through words and performance.”

“They are so beautiful. That is why I want to teach so that I can help bring that out in them.”
“Those kids have already learned to self-actualize in a way that makes sure nothing can ever be too hard for them.”

The only time I ever cry like I did while I was watching that show is when something intense happens in church. That’s how I know this is holy. Somebody is going to watch that and get saved. Now I know where else to point when the church house isn’t helping.

Those kids have given me direction and desire. They lit a fire in my soul that I thought would never burn outside the four walls of an evangelical church (this thought turned into three poems, especially the one titled “Wise Words”). But now I know: Holy are the beautiful things, peace, humanity, sincerity. And they are holy no matter where they are seen.

Here are some of Kosher’s comments during our conversation.

“You can do it, if you’re ready for holding their bleeding wounds.”
My prayer over the next year is to become ready – through inspiration and meditation on the goal.

“If I would die today, I would be glad knowing that the world will be in good hands. I thank G-D for them.” - Kosher
I agree.
I cried harder when I read this statement, because the competitor in me, the attention whore in me, doesn’t want to die without leaving a mark. That part of me doesn’t want to die today, because then those kids would get all the credit for their bravery and conviction and I would have no legacy to leave. I cried because I knew my feelings were selfish. It doesn’t matter who evokes the change as long as it happens. Fuck my competitive drive. Blessed are the brave hearts for they will be remembered. Humbled are the timid hearts for they will always strive to be remembered.

“It is possible to be saved by the blood of Jesus, but only if Jesus wept from hearing them. They are the living gospel.” - Kosher
That needs to be a line in a poem.

Today, I opened a vein, mixed blood with ink, and it poured out looking like poetry.

I Will Never Be A Slam Poet

I will never be a slam poet.

This baffles me. When people read my writing, they tell me about the strength of my voice and the way the words "hit" them. But when I try to write poems for the stage, they always come out sounding too soft or lacking depth.

I thought the problem was in my performance, my delivery. So for an experiment I read a poem by Lauren Zuniga, a friend who is good at slam. I did well. If the poem had been memorized, it probably could've gotten me an 8. So it's not in the delivery.

I noticed last Wednesday at the slam finals for Oklahoma City's nationals team, that everyone who scored well (and even many who didn't) used their poem to tell a story or to call people to action. I realized that the poems I write do neither. I write prayers, introspections, ideas, questions. Sometimes I tell stories, but they are usually love stories or something else equally as boring. I "bleed" too much, feel too much, think too much.

I did an exposé on slam poetry for my nonfiction class at school and in the revision stage, I realized something else. My view of slam has changed over the last month. It used to be something I idealized, even idolized, something glitzy and glamorous and poignant that I wanted to grow into. I thought of slam poetry the same way I think of the competitors on America's Next Top Model, the same way I think of young, famous musicians, the same way I think of the editor-in-chief of Vogue magazine. Something beautiful, hard-to-reach, unnecessarily demanding, and ultimately not ME.

I put beauty and fame on a pedestal, but I was created for hard work. I put vapidity and cut-throat behavior on the list of things to be excused, but I was molded for love and nurture. I admire glitz and glamour, but I was made for wiping snotty noses and picking hearts up off the floor.

I'm coming to grips with this. I used to want to be a slam poet more than anything in the world, but I can't. I was meant to be different. Meant to write, not to perform. Meant to speak, not to recite. Meant to teach, not to compete.

It's a hard pill to swallow, but it never does any good to resist what the Universe has planned for you...unless you're willing to come away from it with a limp (cf. Jacob wrestling the angel and having his leg messed up in the book of Genesis).